


a day in the life

by I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own



Series: Evil Author Day 2021 [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Evil Author Day, No Beta we die like an Elven King, Soul Swap AU, Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:09:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29461062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own/pseuds/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own
Summary: Soulmates exist, and to help them find each other, they have Soul Swap days, where they will live the day in the life of their soulmate...
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil, Galion & Thranduil (Tolkien), Galion (Tolkien)/Ecthelion of the Fountain, Haldir of Lothlórien/Sigrid (Hobbit Movies), Thranduil/Thranduil's Wife
Series: Evil Author Day 2021 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2163834
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	a day in the life

It was, by all accounts, an unintended side effect of the creation of souls. Even Morgoth could not determine what part he played in what would become the Mating of Souls. Eru’s intention had simply been to craft souls and link them to their most appropriate match. This linking still occurred, but there was a connection beyond that link that Eru had not intended. Until the two souls met in life, they would swap vessels for one day each year from the time they turned sixteen, or the equivalent, given their species. The date this swap happened tended to be the middle ground between the birthdates of the two vessels. When a vessel died, the soul would return to the Halls of Waiting, where it would be given a choice as to whether it returned to life within a new vessel or, in the case of the elves, waited to be returned in a replica of their original vessel.

Galion’s the first one to experience the Soul Swap among their friend group, his soul traveling across Beleriand and the sea to rest in the body of one Ecthelion, eventually to be ‘of the Fountain’, while Ecthelion’s soul shot the other direction to settle in Galion’s body. That had been an awkward series of events that first day, Thranduil, Lúthien, and Nimloth showing Ecthelion around Menegroth while also trying to pretend like nothing was out of the ordinary, at Ecthelion’s request, of course. Later, they learned that Galion had spent the day being dragged around Aman by Ecthelion’s group of friends.

Thranduil had been the next one to experience the phenomenon. Going to sleep in his own bed in his home in Menegroth and waking up in an unfamiliar bed in a completely unfamiliar room, where the land sang to him with a different voice. That first time, he stays curled up in the bed, terrified and confused and uncertain all at once, until an elleth comes, calling for ‘Lindariel’. He learns then that he’s swapped with Princess Lindariel of Eryn Galen, in Rhovanion, on the other side of Middle-earth from Menegroth. The elleth, he learns, is Princess Tinúvien, Lindariel’s sister.

While he spends his day being lead all over the vast forest that is Greenwood the Green by Tinúvien, Lindariel has been charming her way through Doriath. The amount of excitement that shines in his father’s eyes when he returns is beyond words. Thranduil knew then that his father would ensure he and Lindariel met, one way or another.

Meet they did, but not for many, _many_ years, and then, all too swiftly, Lindariel was lost to him, stolen in a great plume of fire. The light of his life all burnt out. By that stage in his life, Lúthien, Nimloth and so many others are gone, too, lost to him, in some cases, lost forevermore. He has only Galion remaining from the time before everything went so out of control, and he clings to Galion like a drowning man clings to a life ring. He’s struggling, threatening to go under and Galion’s the only thing that’s keeping him afloat.

* * *

A thousand years after he loses Lindariel, he wakes to an uncomfortable and unfamiliar bed within a house he does not recognize. He lies flat on his back frowning up at the wooden ceiling, listening to the pushing and pulling of water beneath them, and furrows his brows. Logically, he knows what this is, but he’s not sure his heart will accept it.

“Bard?” a voice beside him calls and he startles, he’d heard the second set of breathing in the room but had dismissed it as inconsequential, but now he turns, brow furrowing at the beautiful, _young_ woman lying beside him, a soft frown on her face. “Love?”

“I-I am not Bard.” Thranduil answers, stuttering a little as he mentally switches over to speaking Westron rather than automatically falling into Sindarin, it also doesn’t help that the voice that sounds is not his own. “I… my name is… Darthalas.” He answers, giving his mother-name, which he hasn’t heard in a very, very long time.

“Oh.” The girl’s face crumbles, falling into a sad, but resigned expression. “We knew there was a risk we wouldn’t be soulmates, of course, but most people don’t end up finding their soulmates, anyway.” The girl explains, sitting up and looking away from him. “I’m Mathilda… Bard’s wife.” Thranduil’s eyes widen and he finds himself sitting up suddenly.

“But you can’t be more than sixteen and he can’t be-“

“Bard turned sixteen during the Winter. I’m a Summer baby, so when the sun comes back, I’ll turn sixteen, too.” Mathilda answers, an amused smile on her face.

“But you’re just children.” Thranduil exclaims, an unhappy frown on his face. Beren had been thirty-four when he married Lúthien, Tuor had been twenty-nine when he wed Idril. Mathilda furrows her brows and shakes her head in confusion.

“Marriable age is twelve, with parental consent.” She explains to him, her lips pulled into a confused frown, he wonders what expression he must be wearing, because he doesn’t know if it will match the horror he feels. Married at _twelve_. How… savage. “Where are you from that it’s so different?”

“I-I’m an elf.” Thranduil answers, hesitating over whether he should even give that information, but he decides it was a good idea when Mathilda’s eyes light up.

“Oh, Bard’s half-elven, so he still has a chance, when I’m dead.” Mathilda tells him, excitedly, like the idea of her death is nothing of concern to her. “That’s a relief. Oh, but I should let everyone know Bard’s unavailable for the day.” Mathilda tells him, as she climbs from the bed. “Feel free to sleep in if you’d like. Soul Swap days are Sacred, here.”

“I-I-uh, thank you?” Thranduil answers, utterly bewildered. Mathilda just grins at him and disappears through the bedroom door.

Thranduil does not go back to sleep, instead, he extracts himself from the bed, manages to locate clothing that obviously belongs to Bard and slips it on. He takes a few moments to build up his considerable courage and then steps out of the bedroom door, in search of Mathilda.

* * *

“What’s your plan today?” Thranduil asks Mathilda, as she sets a bowl of broth down on the table in front of him before she sits herself across from him with her own bowl. She stirs at the broth a thoughtful frown on her face.

“I was going to collect herbs to replenish our stock and maybe hunt a little.” She finally answers, shrugging her shoulders. At the confused look he sends her she smiles. “I’m an apprentice healer, in another year I’ll become a Journeyman.”

“Ah, I could assist you? I trained as a healer in my youth.” Thranduil offers, pleased that there may be some way to be of use today, even if none of his own work will be done.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t ask you to do that. You’re on your Soul Swap, you shouldn’t have to spend the day following me around.” Mathilda argues, but Thranduil just laughs.

“My friends and I used to drag the Soul Swapped around our city, where we grew up. We used to make a day of it, show them all of the interesting things that most would overlook.” Thranduil explains but Mathilda scoffs.

“Not much around here to see, I’m afraid.” She answers, before putting on a silly voice. “Beneath us, you’ll find the Long Lake, upon it sits our glorious town, Esgaroth, founded in the wake of the Destruction of Dale and Erebor by a serpent from the North. Towards the North, you’ll see Erebor and, before it, the ruins of Dale. Legend says the dragon is still there, slumbering away atop a pile of cursed gold.” Thranduil’s entire body tenses up at the familiar names, he hadn’t realized he was so close to the Greenwood. His soulmate lives, for all intents and purposes, right on his doorstep. “Darthalas?” the shock of hearing his mother-name spoken for the second time in a good few thousand years is enough to jolt him and he startles, looking across at Mathilda’s worried eyes.

“I-I sorry, I-I live in the Forest.” He admits, knowing he probably shouldn’t, but no one would ever be able to identify him just from the small information he’s given, not unless they were speaking with someone who knew and remembers his mother-name, and such people are few and far between nowadays.

“Ah.” Mathilda says, smiling brightly at him. “So, you know all of our wonderful stories, anyway.”

“Hmm, only those that relate to the dragon, we don’t normally get word of the goings-on here.” He argues, shaking his head. “I would be pleased to assist you in your assigned tasks today, I trained as a healer, but I’m also an experienced hunter.”

“Huh, well, I suppose if you’re choosing to spend your day this way, that’s your right. Just… please avoid the Master as much as possible.” Mathilda requests, a spark of fear in her eyes, even as her voice holds only annoyance. “He already hates Bard enough without learning that Bard and I are not soulmates.”

“The Master of Lake Town, you mean?” Thranduil queries, raising an eyebrow as he finally remembers to eat the broth laid before him. He has had better in his life, but he remembers what it had been to be a refugee, surviving on whatever was at hand. “He seems an odious man.”

“You’ve met him?” Mathilda asks, her voice turned sharp, Thranduil hesitates, slowly putting down his spoon and lifting his head to meet her eyes.

“I’ve had some dealings with him on behalf of my King.” Thranduil answers, which is technically not incorrect, he’s not the King right now and he’s fully capable of doing things on his own behalf, so, not quite a lie.

“He’s the scum of the earth.” Mathilda mutters, angrily stirring her broth around, her face pulled into a sulk and Thranduil suddenly recalls that this woman before him is, in fact, still only a child, no matter what her own people may believe. “He’s the reason Bard and I are married, you know?”

“I’m sorry?” Thranduil sputters, blinking at her in shocked confusion.

“The Master offered my father a great deal of money for my hand. My family is quite poor, so the offer was… accepted, or was going to be accepted.” Mathilda explains, shrugging her shoulders as if she isn’t talking about the fact that her father was willing to _sell her,_ and to a man old enough to be her father, or grandfather, given how young they marry. “Bard and I have been friends since we were little. So, I told him, and he offered to marry me, instead. I agreed. We were both fourteen, old enough to marry without our parent’s permission. We eloped, consummated our marriage, and came home. Of course, now the Master absolutely hates my husband’s guts, but he’s a despicable little shit anyway, and I hope he dies in a fire.” Mathilda hisses, something unnatural in the tone and Thranduil wonders if she is one of the few humans who has a touch of the prophetic about them.

“Right. I’m not going to comment on your culture or your traditions, even though I disagree with them, _vehemently._ And, I’ll try and stay away from the Master.” Thranduil promises, smiling when Mathilda laughs, her face softening as her anger ebbs away.

“Alright. We’ll go after breakfast.”

This is how Thranduil spends a day in or around Lake Town, hunting, gathering herbs, and rediscovering life outside of being a King.

* * *

Waking up in his own body, in his own bed, in his own bedroom is… disappointing. He’d quite forgotten what it was like to be able to go anywhere, do anything and not have to constantly be thinking about the people relying upon you. Without constantly having to think of the tasks that still needed to get done, that no one but you are going to do. Sure, those tasks had still been sitting there, undone, while he’d been rushing around with Mathilda, collecting herbs, hunting, and teaching her various survival skills that would come in useful if she decided to take the ‘journey’ part of the ‘Journeyman’ title seriously.

Now, he’s back to being King, back to ruling over a realm that is eternally at war, back to trying and failing to reach out to his son, and continuously accidentally saying the wrong things to his niece. At least he’ll have Galion, his ever constant, and dependable companion. He really doesn’t know what he would do if he didn’t have Galion, doesn’t know if he’d have survived as long as he has if it weren’t for his friend.

Speaking of Galion, Thranduil rolls over when he hears a knock at the door, his friend’s voice calling to him afterward. He groans something back that might pass for permission to enter and rests his arm over his forehead as he lies flat on the bed again, frowning up at the ceiling.

“So?” Galion queries, sounding oddly hopeful, Thranduil heaves a sigh and turns to pout at his friend. “Is this dejection over having a Soul Swap again? Or over having to continue living your own life?”

“Can’t it be both?” Thranduil asks, even though he’s oddly pleased to have a Soul Swap again, it does mean that he will never see Lindariel again, as she’s chosen to return to life in another form, but still, he’s pleased. He huffs heavily and starts extracting himself from the bed. “Come on, I’ll tell you all about my day.” He promises as Galion disappears into the wardrobe to gather his clothing for the day, as Thranduil starts telling his friend about Mathilda, Bard, and Lake Town.

* * *

Every year, for just one day, he and Bard swap places. He wakes up in Lake Town, with Mathilda’s quiet, comforting presence, and Bard wakes in Greenwood, inevitably to be roused by Galion. This is how the years pass, Thranduil takes the time to teach Mathilda bits and pieces of elven healing, even going so far as to send books to her through Bard’s bargeman duties, and she, in turn, tells him the latest gossip from Lake Town and beyond, that he may not have heard yet. Mathilda expertly working her Journeys into the months furthest from Bard and Thranduil’s Soul Swap day.

While his friendship with Mathilda blooms, Bard becomes fast friends with Galion, and Thranduil’s amused to learn that Bard’s Soul Swap days are spent learning to rule a kingdom, which apparently Mathilda finds hilarious whenever Bard cries at her about it. Thranduil does feel a little bad that he gets to escape his duties to run off having fun with Mathilda while consigning Bard to a day of boredom, but if he and Bard are ever to be together, what Bard is learning will be a necessity.

Then, one year, he wakes in Mathilda and Bard’s home to the sound of a baby crying, Mathilda whines something unhappily beside him and climbs from the bed. Thranduil follows after her, curious and intrigued… and absolutely smitten with the tiny baby that gets passed into his hands by an exhausted Mathilda.

“It’s official, Sigrid’s wrapped everyone she meets around her little finger.” Mathilda announces, pinching the baby’s cheeks before turning away. “I’m dumping the baby on you so I can get some more sleep. Sorry about it, but not really.” Thranduil coos at the baby (Sigrid?), even as she snags his (Bard’s) hair in a tight little fist and stuffs it in her mouth. Thranduil’s eyes are caught by the delicately pointed ears, and he realizes he should probably find a way to teach Bard glamours, since they probably don’t want to reveal to the town that Sigrid is half-elven.

“I have raised children before.” Thranduil answers, looking up at Mathilda and frowning at the drawn look on her face. “Go sleep, I’ll look after the little one, today.” He promises, Mathilda smiles tiredly at him, mumbles her thanks and turns to go back to bed.

Thranduil spends the day telling Sigrid children’s stories that he learned when he was an elfling, stories he’s told to his own children, too. All the while, the baby is content to suck at the hair clenched so tightly in her little hand.

* * *

“Bard and Mathilda have a baby!” Thranduil gushes at Galion when his friend arrives at his chambers the next morning. Thranduil’s already managed to extract himself from the bed, bathe, and dress for the day when Galion arrives, so he’s not sure if his friend’s staring is in surprise at the news or this accomplishment of Thranduil’s. Thranduil hasn’t already been out of bed when Galion’s come to fetch him since Lindariel’s passing. “Sigrid’s so adorable!”

“Yes, Bard spent all day telling me about her.” Galion admits, a fond smile on his face. “Including her delicate little ears. I’ve explained to him how to hide those for her. He said that at the moment, the villages assume it’s a birth defect since some human children are born with pointed ears and the point rounds out over time.”

“Oh, good. That’s one less thing for me to worry about. But you should have seen her, Galion!” Thranduil exclaims, pressing his hand to his heart. “She’s so tiny!”

Thranduil spends as much of that day as he can telling everyone in the know about little Sigrid and her heart-stealing powers.

* * *

When he swaps with the Bard the next year, he’s barely taken the time to register that he’s in Bard and Mathilda’s house, before he’s jumping out of bed and going hunting for the baby, leaving a bemused Mathilda behind. He finds Sigrid tucked up in her little cot, a soft toy horse clutched tight in her little hands, as she’s lost in sleep. He can’t help but coo at her, remembering that he’d been just as smitten when Legolas, Tauriel, Elrond, Elros, Elwing, Elurín, and Eluréd were born. He’s genuinely convinced he’d have cooed over Dior, too, if Lúthien and Beren had bothered to tell anyone of his birth.

“She looks cute now, just wait until she’s up and walking with the sun.” Mathilda whispers, stepping beside him, the both of them watching the slumbering baby with fond eyes.

“Mmm, just wait until she’s an adolescent who refuses to listen to a single word you have to say.” He answers, smirking when she groans. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

* * *

The year after, he wakes up in Lake Town to a little body cocooned between him and Mathilda and he knows already that they’re too small to be Sigrid. Thranduil blinks at the little being, who blinks back and gives him a gummy smile. Just like with Sigrid and all the others, his heart is caught, and he coos back.

“Mmm. Meet Bain.” Mathilda murmurs, her eyes barely open as she fights sleep. “Little menace who refuses to sleep on his own.”

“Well, Master Bain, I think you’re the cutest menace I’ve ever seen.” Thranduil coos at Bain, who giggles back at him and Thranduil’s heart melts even more.

“Big softie.” Mathilda mumbles, as she rolls over and goes back to sleep.

“Let’s let nana sleep, hmm?” Thranduil queries, reaching out to snag Bain, cradling the little boy against his chest as he climbs from the bed. “Let’s go see if your sister is awake.”

* * *

Over the next few visits, he spends his time with the children listening to them as they grow increasingly more mature and their vocabulary grows. On the third visit after Bain’s born, he learns that Bard and Mathilda have taken the time to start teaching the children Sindarin. Sigrid greets him with an excited babble that starts with ‘Ada Darthalas!’ and continues on in almost unintelligible Sindarin. Almost unintelligible for the speed at which it’s spoken and the enthusiasm with which it’s infused. Still, he’s very impressed (and touched) and praises the girl’s hard work.

Bain, not to be outdone, tells Thranduil everything he’s been learning, too. Thranduil doesn’t know why it comes so easy to him to praise Bard’s children when he struggles to do the same for Legolas and Tauriel. Still, that’s not something the children need to concern themselves with and something for him to think on later.

He happily answers any of their questions on Sindarin, Quenya, and elvish cultures in general. And, when he wakes up in his own body the next morning, he happily gushes to Galion about the children, how swiftly they’re growing, and everything they’re learning. Galion is suitably impressed.

* * *

A few years later, he wakes in Lake Town, but Mathilda is not with him. Instead, Sigrid and Bain are tucked up on either side of him, and pressed against the bed is the familiar little cot with a relatively newborn baby within. Thranduil stares at the too-small baby within the crib, the baby slumbers on, unaware.

It’s not until Sigrid wakes that he learns what has happened.

“Da, I’m hungry.” Sigrid whines, keeping her voice quiet so she won’t wake the others. Thranduil stirs and turns his head to look at the eight-year-old, sees the sad frown on her face.”

“It’s Ada Darthalas, Sigrid.” Thranduil murmurs in response and watches as Sigrid’s eyes light up a little. “Where is your nana?” he queries, watching that spark crash and die, her face falling. “Sigrid?”

“Nana’s gone. Passed away.” Sigrid answers, her voice so little and sad, her lower lip trembling, Thranduil’s breath catches, and he clutches Sigrid to him as she starts to cry.

“I’m so sorry, Sigrid.” He murmurs, wondering why _all_ of his children have now learned what it is to lose their mother. “You can’t bring her back, but-“ he hesitates, remembering what his father had told him when he lost his mother, and what he’d told on to Legolas when they’d lost Lindariel, and Tauriel when Tinúvien had been lost. “-as long as you remember her, she’ll be with you, always.”

“Da said that same thing.” Bain whispers, Thranduil realizes suddenly that the boy is awake, too, and he drapes an arm around his shoulders. “What if we forget her?”

“You couldn’t forget her.” Thranduil promises, thinking of the portrait his father had given him so he could remember what his mother looked like, even as he got older and his memory of her began to fade. “I won’t let you forget her.”

“Da named Tilda after nana!” Sigrid says, sitting up to look into the cot where the baby, little Tilda, continues to slumber away. “He said Tilda was nana’s last gift.”

“Your father is a very smart man.” Thranduil tells the children, a soft, sad smile on his lips. “Tilda was your mother’s last gift to all of you, so you have to look out for her.”

“Alright, ada!” the children chorus, determination written all over their little faces.

“But, you can’t look after little Tilda if you don’t take care of yourselves. I believe I heard someone say they were hungry?” he asks, looking at Sigrid, who smiles and nods her head.

“Can we have pancakes, ada?” Bain queries, looking up at him hopefully.

“I’m afraid I don’t know how to make pancakes.” Thranduil admits, he also doesn’t know what pancakes are, either, but he’s not going to tell them that. “Let’s see what’s available and I’ll figure out what we can make, hmm?”

Thranduil spends the day looking after a set of traumatized and grieving children, so it’s not until later that he mourns Mathilda and everything she had left to offer this world. That night, before he settles into the bed, he presses a gentle kiss to Tilda’s head and promises Mathilda that he’ll watch over her family, little Tilda especially.

* * *

It’s startling to him, to see how swiftly the children grow in the ten years since Mathilda’s passing. Truthfully, he’s only gotten to see them for one day each year, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t thought of them often. Even sending gifts to them through Bard and his bargeman duties. And Thranduil had been quite livid when he’d learned the Master had wanted to evict Bard from his home, since without Mathilda’s contribution, Bard couldn’t afford to keep the house any longer. Thranduil had, of course, simply increased Bard’s pay and threatened the Master severely if he learned that the Master had siphoned off any of it for his own gain.

He knows he’s not supposed to have favourites, but even so, Tilda’s his. She reminds him much of the woman she is named for, and she is always so happy when he’s present. He knows part of that is because she’s young and fascinated with the idea of a great elven warrior swooping in to take her away from her life of hardship and toil, as she’d so eloquently told him when she was five and had just finished reading one of the human’s various children’s stories. He’s relatively certain the children have everything they could possibly need that is appropriate for Bard to provide for them, as much as Thranduil would like to swoop in and take them all away.

* * *

The message that comes through the trees is frantic and disjointed and he can barely make sense of it beyond ‘dragon’ and ‘burning’. Then the elves who had obviously sent the message arrive, breathless and panicked and barely any more coherent than the trees were, still, he gets enough to know that Lake Town is half-drowned and half-burned, and the dragon has been slain, by Bard, of all people.

“What of the children?” Thranduil demands of Meludir, even as his old friend struggles to pull air into their lungs. In lieu of speaking, Meludir reaches for him mentally and projects the image of Bard’s children fleeing from the fire and the dragon both. The next image shows the humans heading towards Dale. Thranduil lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, his shoulders slumping in relief. “Well done, Meludir, find your rest. We’ll leave in few a hours.” He states, sending his friend off even as he turns to begin making preparations.

A dragon’s horde lies unprotected and a town in ruins. He doesn’t expect the dwarves to honour the old laws or even the laws of common decency. He’s also not going to give them a single ounce of leeway if it means ~~his chi~~ Bard’s children will starve or freeze to death in the coming winter. No matter what Bard may be now, he is the future King-Consort of Greenwood.

* * *

He’s anxious the entire ride to Dale, like his skin is too small, too tight and he needs to escape. Galion keeps trying to distract him by pulling him into discussions or various road trip games they’ve played throughout the millennia, but Thranduil finds he can’t focus on it. Even less so when they break through the border of the trees and see the smoke from Lake Town billowing high into the sky. The town is half-buried in the lake and still, it burns.

“They survived, mellon nin.” Galion murmurs beside him when there is one devastating moment where he can’t breathe. Galion’s hand on his arm is the only thing that grounds him.

“Let’s go.” He says, tearing his gaze away from the town where some of his most recent happiest memories occurred. He has to take a moment to gather his strength when he realizes how badly things could have gone. What could have happened if Bard were not such an expert shot, if the children had somehow gotten trapped.

“They survived.” Galion assures him again, Thranduil breathes in deep and nods his head.

* * *

Meeting Bard for the first time is an experience. They’re surrounded by Thranduil’s army, in the middle of Dale’s ruins and the children are nowhere in sight. Thranduil pulls on millennia worth of experience and patience to get him through formalities. But he’s gratified to see the awe in Bard’s eyes, that he knows must be reflected in his own.

Last time, when Bard had been Lindariel and they’d met in person for the first time under the moonlight in a clearing deep within Greenwood, the pair of them had shone brightly when they’d touched, the confirmation of two mated souls reuniting. Now, they’re both careful not to touch, even accidentally, as Thranduil follows Bard through their refugee camp.

This place will not protect them during the winter unless they’re propped up, Thranduil knows and he assumes that Bard knows this, too. Thranduil gets a glimpse of the children as they work, Tilda patiently running errands for those healers among the survivors, one of whom is Sigrid, as Thranduil knows. Bain is bunked down, a nasty burn on his cheek has been slathered with a slave and he’s clearly exhausted. None of the children know him in this form, nor by this name, so he knows he will have to wait until later to speak with them in person. Instead, he turns his attention back to Bard and continues with the more important matters of ensuring the survivors have everything they need and if not, whether Thranduil can procure it.

When his tent is finally set up, he doesn’t waste any time ushering Bard towards it, while Galion rolls his eyes at both of them. Thranduil resits the urge to glare back and simply ignores his friend, instead. He’s grateful when Meludir and Arenion take up the guard posts at the tent entrance, they, at least, already know what he and Bard are to each other.

“You know, if you wanted to meet me so desperately, all you had to do was ask.” Thranduil comments to Bard once the tent flap has fallen shut behind them. Bard gives a breathless laugh and collapses bonelessly into Thranduil’s wooden throne, exhaustion visibly eating at him. “So, I understand you have slain a dragon?” Thranduil asks, as he steps across to the table, where a bottle of wine has been left to air long with a set of goblets.

“Not swiftly enough.” Bard mutters, his voice thick with self-recrimination. “Lake Town is gone, so many with it.”

“There is no such thing as being ‘too late’ when it comes to dragon slaying, Bard.” Thranduil comments gently, as he pours out a goblet of wine and brings it over to the human, their fingers brushing together as Bard accepts the goblet. They both pause at the glow that forms around the both of them, confirmation of mated souls meeting. Thranduil is the first to shake off the euphoria, as he turns away to claim his own goblet and bring one of the chairs from the table over. “The fact you slew the dragon at all is a miracle and you should be pleased by this.”

“If I’d been faster-“

“Bard.” Thranduil hesitates, settling his goblet down and holding out his hand, turning it this way and that as he looks at the unblemished skin, mulling his options over. “You know how I lost my wife.” He states, glancing up at the human, who nods, his eyes narrowing. “Even if I had been faster, there is no guarantee that I would have saved her. You have been incredibly lucky. To stand against a dragon and survive unscathed. Only Eärendil has been so lucky, otherwise.” Thranduil explains, peeling away the glamour on his arm to show the scarred skin beneath. Bard’s shocked intake of breath is audible, and with a shaking hand, Thranduil lets the glamour wind itself back around him. “Maybe, if you had been faster, you’d have taken out the dragon, but he might have taken you out, too.”

“True enough.” Bard answers, swirling the wine in his goblet morosely, before downing it in one go, Thranduil raises an eyebrow but says nothing. “You know, I’ve spent all these years learning how to rule a kingdom, I just don’t think anyone expected that kingdom to be Dale.” Bard admits, spinning the goblet between his hands, refusing to look up and meet Thranduil’s eyes.

“Well, I spent my youth learning to rule, too, no one expected the kingdom I’d rule to be Greenwood the Great.” Thranduil answers, remembering how ardently he and Nimloth had fought against their governance and diplomacy lessons because Lúthien was Thingol’s heir. Really, how likely was it that anything would happen to _both_ of them that would necessitate Oropher or Elmo’s line ascending the throne in place of Elwë’s? How foolishly naïve they’d all been then. “That’s the thing about life, unexpected things happen, and you just have to adapt as much as you possibly can.”

“Like a bloody dragon burning your town to the ground.” Bard mutters, Thranduil sighs and nods his head.

“Yes, just like that.” He agrees, cocking his head to the side in thought. “ Gondolin fell to dragons and balrogs. Two of my friends died defending that city, they managed to slay the balrogs they were fighting, but the balrogs slew them in turn.” He explains, laughing a little when he remembers Glorfindel’s only comment on the whole affair after he returned to Middle-earth. “Lord Glorfindel tells me that his only regret was not tying his hair down before he started fighting.” Bard snorts and shakes his head, an amused smile pulling at his lips.

“Hindsight can be a bitch sometimes.” Bard mutters, resting his goblet on the floor and sighing heavily. “What happens now?”

“We claim your treasure and we rebuild your city.” Thranduil answers with a shrug of his shoulders before he frowns. “We’ve met now, so we’ll no longer be swapping every year. We’ll need to navigate that, too.”

“Well, I’m sure there’ll be plenty of reasons for us to be visiting each other, and it’s not like the children will accept you staying away any longer, especially not after they learn who their Ada Darthalas really is.” Bard points out, smirking at the face Thranduil makes at him. “Tilda might even move herself in with you.” Thranduil scoffs at that but Bard laughs and shakes his head. “I’m being serious, she asked me just the other week why she couldn’t go live with her ada. I was very offended.”

“While I’m offended on your behalf, I find it amusing that your children assume I’m the fun parent.”

“You think you aren’t.” Bard asks, incredulous, Thranduil snorts and shakes his head.

“If you ask my youngest son and my niece, they will tell you that there is nothing fun about me.” He admits, failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice, it’s Bard’s turn to scoff now.

“Their loss.” Bard answers, shrugging his shoulders. “My kids would all move in with you in a heartbeat if you indicated it was an option. I would blame Mathilda for that, but Tilda’s the worst offender and Mathilda was not around to be an influence upon her.”

“Mathilda was always my greatest defender.” Thranduil agrees, grinning, though he’s momentarily caught off guard when he realizes that speaking of Mathilda doesn’t _hurt_ the way speaking of his lost loved ones always hurts.

“Mathilda thought you were just neat.” Bard tells him, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, Sigrid has questions for you, whenever you’re free.”

“Questions?”

“About Lothlórien, if you have any answers for her.”

“Why Lothlórien in particular?” Thranduil queries, brow furrowed, though he sees the darkened expression on Bard’s face.

“Sigrid is eighteen. She’s had two swaps with her soulmate. His name is Haldir.”

“Oh!” Thranduil exclaims, suddenly understanding, though he doesn’t know why Sigrid hasn’t asked the last time Thranduil and Bard swapped. “Hmm, that could be interesting to see play out. Though, I’ve known Haldir and his brothers since they were babies, you have nothing to concern yourself with as far as he’s concerned. But that doesn’t mean we can’t engage in ‘shovel talk’ as I believe your people call it.” He says, watching the mischievous smirk that forms on Bard’s face.

I’m a bargeman. We don’t do shovel talk. We send people to sleep with the fishes.” Bard answers, Thranduil laughs and rises to grab the wine bottle.

“Well, let’s discuss our terms for him, shall we?”

* * *

The second day in Dale, Thranduil wakes with the sun and rolls out of bed with an unhappy grumbling. He and Bard had stayed up, talking and drinking late into the night and when he’d finally sent Bard off back to ~~their~~ his children, Thranduil had been more than ready for bed. Now, of course, he’d rather still be in bed, but he knows there are duties before him that need doing.

He peeks his head out of the tent in search for Galion, but failing to find him, he snags one of the other elves and requests a bath to be bought for him, then he turns and goes rifling through his clothing trunk, debating what he feels in the mood to wear today. When he hears the elves setting up the bath in larger portion of the tent, he calls his thanks to them and continues his quest, eventually settling on a comfortable tunic and trousers, with an elaborate robe to go over the top. His clothing acquired, he heads out to soak in the bath for a little while and let his thoughts wander.

By the time he’s out of the bath and dressed and Galion still hasn’t made an appearance, he’s starting to worry. Galion hasn’t once ever shirked his duties, not if he could help it, so Thranduil knows whatever is keeping his friend from him is important. He considers his over-robe for a few moments, before pulling it over his head and returning it to the trunk, instead grabbing one of his thinner coats, which allows him to strap on his weapons belt. With his trusted swords hanging at his sides, he turns to go in search of his friend. His guards falling into step behind him as he passes them.

* * *

They find Galion standing on what had once been a look out point, looking down over the valley. The confusion on Galion’s face gives Thranduil pause, before he steps forward and stands at his friend's side, looking where he is and trying to determine what has placed that expression on his friend’s face.

“Galion?” he queries, his friend startles beside him, turning to look at him with wide eyes, that quickly turn relieved.

“Oh, Thranduil! Thank the Valar you’re here! I’ve been trying to find anyone I recognized, but I don’t know anyone, and this place is so very confusing.” Galion exclaims, reaching out to grip Thranduil’s arm, Thranduil raises an eyebrow, this time he is the one confused.

“Galion?”

“No. Oh-oh, of course! I was- you would know that I- oh, that makes sense.” Galion states, then his expression becomes bright and excited. “It’s Ecthelion.” He announces, eyes shining like little stars, Thranduil stares, his draw-dropping open as his brain suddenly slams to a halt.

“But you’re- you died.” Thranduil exclaims, shaking his head, Galion- no, _Ecthelion_ grins.

“I finally managed to convince Eru to let me return to Middle-earth.” Ecthelion tells him, all but vibrating on the spot. Thranduil had forgotten how excitable the hero of Gondolin could be. Stories always painted him and Glorfindel as serious warriors, that couldn’t have been further from the truth. Well, alright, it’s true they were warriors and that they always took their battles and their duties seriously, but when given the opportunity, they were both as if someone had bottled the light of the sun and the enthusiasm of little puppies and placed both within the set of friends.

“So, Galion is currently elsewhere while I am preparing for war?” Thranduil queries, watching that brightness dim suddenly, the excitable elf before him suddenly becoming serious and stern.

“War?”

“My soulmate has just slain a dragon that destroyed his town. There are a group of dwarves currently hoarding the dragon’s treasure. I assume their reinforcements will be arriving at some point. I’m sure others will crawl out of the woodwork when the news spreads.” Thranduil answers, turning his gaze towards Erebor and deliberately not turning south towards where Lake Town still burns. Dragonfire is not like regular fire, Thranduil doesn’t know how long they might be waiting for that flame to die.

“Right, so not a good time to have a Soul Swap.” Ecthelion answers, his jaw set. “When I return, I will see what aid I can convince Imladris to bring, though their Lord is not in residence.”

“Oh, where is Elrond off to, now?” Thranduil queries, frowning when Ecthelion furrows his brows at him.

“Southern Mirkwood?”

“Oh. I see. The Council is keeping me in dark, _again_. Why does that _not_ surprise me?” Thranduil queries, shaking his head. “Well, I suppose I’ll deal with that when I no longer have a choice in the matter.” He decides, turning away from the mountain and the valley below. “Come along, mellon nin, there is much I have to do, your presence may be a help rather than a hindrance.”

* * *

“Wait!” Ecthelion calls, as they pass back into Thranduil’s tent, Thranduil pauses to raise an eyebrow at his recently returned to life friend. “You said ‘soulmate’.”

“So, I did.” Thranduil answers, turning away from Ecthelion and pulling his weapons belt from his waist, settling it aside. He knows he should probably stay armed, but really, until they decide on battle, there is little danger to him. And if he was going to be playing things as per protocol, at least one of his children, adopted or otherwise, should have remained in Greenwood, but the twins were with him here in the camp and Tauriel and Legolas were places unknown, and Bard’s children wouldn’t count until he and his soulmate were married. The line of succession had never been more unsecure.

“Thranduil?” Galion’s voice cuts through his thoughts and he startles, looking up at Ecthelion, realizing he’d let his thoughts wander.

“Apologies, you were saying?”

“I was pointing out that you said you had a soulmate.” Ecthelion repeats, looking at him intently, Thranduil sighs, Ecthelion really could be like a dog with a bone.

“Yes, I have a soulmate. His name is Bard, he slew the dragon, he’s the future King of Dale, and he’s half-elven, any other questions?” Thranduil queries, as he ducks through the flap into what serves as his sleeping chamber. “I have something of yours. Not sure how it survived Gondolin’s Fall, or Beleriand sinking, but here we are.” Thranduil says, digging through one of his trunks and coming up with a sheathed Orcrist. He spins and heads back out to find Ecthelion setting out a bottle of wine and a pair of goblets at the table. “I’ve been hiding this from Galion, since I don’t know how he would react.”

“Oh?” Ecthelion queries, placing the goblets down and looking up at him, eyes going wide as he catches sight of the swords. “Orcrist.” He breathes, reaching out with trembling hands, Thranduil hums and gently hands over the sword. “How?”

“Like I said, I don’t know how it survived. It was confiscated from Thorin Oakenshield, the dwarf who set the dragon upon the town.” Thranduil explains, pouring out wine for the pair of them as he watches Ecthelion inspect the blade, his eyes full of wonder.

“Then he doesn’t deserve to have it!” Ecthelion hisses, holding the sword before him, the sunlight glinting off the metal. “Besides, it’s mine.” He states, glancing at Thranduil with bitterly amused eyes. “You and I both know the lengths we elves will go to in order to reclaim what is ours.” Thranduil hums in amusement and toasts Ecthelion with a goblet. “Do you think Galion would look after Orcrist until I can come and claim it?”

“Well, since you’re alive again, I’m sure he’d be happy to hold on to it for you.”

* * *

Bard arrives after he and Ecthelion have been fussed at by the twins to eat, apparently, his sons think he’ll fall apart if Galion isn’t there to police his schedule. So, they’d eaten under the stern glares of his twins, before they’d left, with smug little smiles on their faces that painfully reminded him of their mother and their grandmother.

Bard steps through the tent entrance and pauses to consider Ecthelion, where he’s sat in the corner cooing over Orcrist as he sharpens and polishes the sword. Thranduil follows Bard’s gaze and rolls his eyes.

“Don’t mind him. Galion and his soulmate are having a Soul Swap day.” Thranduil comments, sounding mildly exasperated even to his own ears. “This idiot has been reunited with his long-lost love.” He says, before letting a smirk form on his face. “I’m telling Galion you apparently love your sword more than him.”

“That’s so mean!” Ecthelion responds, sounding utterly offended. “This sword helped me kill the Lord of Balrogs!”

“Didn’t save your life, though, did it?” Thranduil retorts, as Bard looks between the pair of them, Thranduil wants to laugh at the shocked awe on his face.

“Too soon, Thranduil!” Ecthelion whines, a perfect pout on his face even as he ignores Thranduil’s exasperated mutter of ‘it was six thousand years ago!’. “I can’t believe you’d treat me this way!”

“Anyway, like I said. Don’t mind him.” Thranduil says to Bard, ushering him over to the wooden throne and turning to fetch a goblet of wine. “He’s currently the reason my most trusted advisor isn’t present while I’m preparing to possibly go to war, so we’ll make do.”

“Galion told me his soulmate was Lord Ecthelion of the Fountain?” Bard says, looking at Ecthelion with excitement. “But I thought Lord Ecthelion died?”

“He did.” Thranduil mutters, glaring at Ecthelion when he goes to respond, Ecthelion scowls back. “We’re having a private conversation over here, Ecthelion. I’m not sure what manners they taught you in Gondolin, but-“

“Oh, don’t start that again! Gondolin and Doriath are finally united as one under the crushing weight of the sea.” Ecthelion says with a tired sigh. “Besides, I think Gondolin and Doriath united when little Eärendil off and married little Elwing.”

“True enough.” Thranduil agrees, turning back to Bard. _“Anyway_ , this idiot managed to sulk at our Creator enough that he got himself sent back to Middle-earth.”

“I learned from the best.” Ecthelion tells them, a self-satisfied smirk on his face before he clears his throat and hurries to say, “May she rest in peace.”

“ _Really?”_ Thranduil demands, rubbing at his forehead.

“Humans still say that, don’t they?” Ecthelion asks, glancing at Bard, his face pulled into a frown. “I remember that being a phrase they used to say!”

“That was six thousand years ago! Things change!” Thranduil argues, shaking his head. “What have you been doing in Imladris since you came back? Clearly, not catching up on the history you were dead for!”

“Nagging Glorfindel, if you must know.” Ecthelion answers, holding his head up high. “It’s a time-honoured tradition and I have six thousand years to make up.”

“That’s fair.” Thranduil agrees easily, laughing at the look Ecthelion gives him.

“We’re not going to get any proper work done today, are we?” Bard asks, sounding amused and exasperated in equal measure. Thranduil shares a look with Ecthelion, both their eyes shine as they smile and shake their heads.

“No.” 

**Author's Note:**

> *whispers at you* Bard is half-elven cos he's Maglor's sneaky son that Maglor has told absolutely fucking no one about. We are pretending Maglor's canon wife doesn't exist.


End file.
